The Night Sam Left
by lifeofsnark
Summary: The night Sam left for Stanford, as told from both Sam and Dean's perspective


Dean walked into the deserted old farmhouse, boots echoing on the scarred wood floor. He saw Sam's faded backpack leaning against the lopsided kitchen table, the surface marked by water stains the exact diameter of beer cans. He broke down his sawed-off and dropped it on the table, shrugged his worn leather jacket over the back of a chair, and headed to the battered green cooler for a beer.

The first swig was always the best- cold, fizzy, the taste of hops lingering on his tongue. He carried the can through the kitchen and into the living room. This back part of the house didn't fare any better than the front. The windows had broken long ago from the look of the moldering plaster, and the small town's homeless population had clearly lit fires on the floor, over and over, until they had burned through to the cement foundation below.

Sam was sitting in a folding lawn chair, one John had stolen from a yard sale years ago, the frame bent with age. His boots were still laced on, only the cuffs of his shirt unbuttoned. He had a piece of paper held loosely in one giant palm- when exactly had Dean's little brother gotten so big?- and his head was tilted down, his overgrown hair obscuring his eyes.

"Whaddya do, flunk a test?" Dean drawled loudly, dramatically flopping into the only other piece of furniture in the room. He set his beer on the floor next to him and bent over, one foot outstretched, to start unlacing his boot.

"It's not a test, Dean," Sam responded levelly. He sat up straighter and passed the paper to his brother without breaking eye contact.

Dean quirked an eyebrow at the odd formality of the moment, but glanced down to scan the page in front of him. The first thing he noticed was the official seal in the top left corner- Stanford University printed in bold red ink. The next think he processed was the first line:

" _Dear Mr. Winchester, we are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted into Stanford University for the fall of 2001…"_

Dean looked up, his eyes wide, mouth slightly open. "Stanford- that's like, big leagues man. I…"

He looked off into the distance, not quite focusing on his brother's face.

"Keep reading," Sam directed in his quiet monotone.

There, at the bottom of the letter, was an offer of full fees and tuition paid. Sam could go for free- eat and sleep and learn at no cost to him and no danger to his life.

Slowly, gradually, like the dawn breaking, a grin spread over Dean's face. Standing, he yanked his brother out of the chair and clasped him tightly in a hug, thumping the taller man on the back. "I am so damn proud of you," he ground out, voice slightly gruff.

When they pulled apart, the shy smile quickly drained from Sam's face. "What am I going to tell dad?" he asked, voice uncharacteristically small.

Dean understood that this is what had been weighing on Sam's mind, probably for months. It would explain his odd behavior, the furrowed brows and lingering looks at John when their father's back was turned.

"How long have you known?" Dean asked hollowly, gesturing weakly with the letter.

"Since April," Sam responded, and Dean's heart sank a little more. His little brother- the boy he'd nursed through fevers, the boy who had told him about his first crush, had kept this from him.

"I was waiting to see what kind of scholarship they'd give me. Those don't usually get distributed 'til May. There was no point in telling you if we couldn't pay."

"We'd have figured it out," said Dean automatically. Idly, he wondered if this was how parents in normal families felt when their kids got into college- a sickening mix of crushing loss and euphoric pride.

"But… what are we going to tell dad?" Sam looked slightly smaller than his full 6'4", an unsure child just one more time.

"We'll just tell him," said Dean. "Maybe we can work cases out there, or you can come with us for the weekends-"

"Dean." Sam cut him off, the one word filled with so many hopes and fears.

There was a long pause.

"I want out. I want to be normal."

Dean had heard that phrase over and over from Sam through the years, but this one hurt the most. Though Dean knew better, it felt like Sam was trying to wash away his life thus far, and with it, Dean.

In the pause, fraught with tension, the brothers heard the telltale rumble of their father's diesel truck pulling around behind the house like a storm breaking over the horizon.

"Stay in here with me?" Sam asked, casting puppy-eyes at his brother.

"Yeah, man, of course." Dean slapped Sam's arm, trying to jolly some confidence into him. Sam swallowed.

John's boots thumped in the back, the off-kilter door slamming shut behind him like a warning knell.

"Hey boys-" he called jovially.

That's all it took for Sam and Dean to understand that their father had had a good day and had stopped by the bar to celebrate. He was still within the realm of pleasantly buzzed, but he was in no way sober.

Sam glanced at Dean, who plastered a smile over his face. "Dad! You're not going to fucking believe this, but Sam got a full ride to Stanford! A full ride!"

John froze, and so the boys did as well. The boozy glow drained from John's eyes.

"What? You applied to college without telling me, your father?"

"I didn't want to bother you with it if I didn't get in or we couldn't afford it."

"You were trying to sneak out behind my back!" John roared. Sam stood his ground.

"No sir, that's not it at all-"

John swaggered up to Sam, his ruddy face inches from his son's. "You trying to run out on this family, boy?" he sneered. "After everything I've done for you? Letting you stay in school despite how much of a pain in my ass it was- and now you're just trying to walk out?"

"Let me explain," Sam broke in, leaning back slightly from the smell of cheap scotch on his father's breath.

"No, let me explain," John enunciated slowly. "You walk out that door, you don't bother coming back. You don't get to hit the pause button on this family when things get inconvenient!"

Sam ground his teeth. "Fine," he growled, muscles along his jaw and neck flexing. He turned, moving quietly into the bedroom he and Dean shared. Dean stood, torn between calming his father and stopping his brother. He tried to tell himself this was just another fight, but he knew that this was different. This was going to change things for forever.

Glancing back at John, Dean followed Sam into the bedroom where he was stuffing his clothes and laptop into his ratty duffel. "I can't take it anymore, Dean," he growled, stuffing a balled up flannel into the bag. His other pair of shoes were next. "I can't take him giving us orders without reason, and always coming home drunk, and just expecting us to follow in his footsteps, to spend our whole life on the road."

"Sammy," Dean broke in, voice tired.

Sam turned to his brother, eyes wild, and cut him off. "It's Sam, Dean. And you know what, you, me, we don't have to do this. We could do something else, we could live in a house with an address, and work a real job, and stay in one place, and be fucking normal for once!" He gestured between the two of them. "You and me, we've got a chance."

Sam stood still, boots planted, thin chest heaving. He took a deep breath. "You can come with me, Dean. You could get a job somewhere…" his voice trailed off; his duffel rested, mostly full, at his feet.

Dean shook his head, briefly closing his eyes. "You know I can't do that Sam. I'm a fucking high school dropout, the only thing I got in the world is the Impala, and we can't even register her because we don't have an address. And Dad"- he gritted his teeth. "Dad can't hunt alone, you and I both know that. He needs someone watching his back, helping him with research."

Sam jerked his chin to the side, nostrils flaring. "What about my back. You're picking _dad_ over _me?"_

"No, Sam, it's not fucking like that. I'd be useless at whatever little domestic shit you're trying to set up. This is all I can do, all I fucking know. And we can't just leave dad on his own, you know that, man! You know I don't want you to go!"

Both brothers stood still, gulping air and eyeing each other, the only sound the faint and tinny noise of the battery-powered radio out with John.

Sam broke first, grabbing his bag and flinging it over his shoulder as he turned to the door. "You at least going to give me a ride to the bus station?" he called.

Dean didn't respond, but he went into the kitchen to grab his keys. He didn't stop moving, just swung into his jacket and slammed out the front, down the sagging grey wood steps of the porch, and slid into the Impala. He leaned his forehead against the steering wheel, fingers clenching and unclenching on either side.

His brother was leaving, basically fucking banished, and he was trapped here with his dad- trapped by love and family and duty and everything that had gone before.

Sam came out of the house, tossed his bags in the back, and threw himself into the passenger seat. Dean put the car in gear and pulled out onto the dark country road, the yellow dashes faded on the asphalt. Twisted Sister blared out the speakers for a second or two before Dean punched the heel of his hand against the controls, effectively silencing the tape.

The rode in silence, each ignoring the other, the dark silhouettes of trees blurring outside the window. Too soon the few lights of the one-stoplight town came into view.

Dean idled to a stop beside the door to the bus terminal. Sam got out, slamming the door behind him, and strode into the building. Dean just thought about the gentle rumble of the engine purring in neutral, the flickering light of the neon greyhound sign overhead, anything but the fact that his brother was leaving.

Sam slid back into the car with just a glance at his older brother. Dean couldn't tell if Sam was feeling guilty or if he was disappointed in him. Dean also wasn't sure if he wanted to know.

"Bus leaves in less than an hour," Sam said, slouching deeper into the bench seat of the Impala.

Dean just nodded. It felt as though his lungs were slowly, gradually, absorbing less oxygen.

A few minutes passed, Sam's knee bouncing fitfully. "You could still come with me," he blurted, glancing at Dean out of the corner of his eye.

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose, right between his eyes. "You know I can't, Sam, dammit we both know I can't. I'd get in your way, be the freak with the salt, and you know- you and I know- we can't leave dad by himself. That's not fair."

Sam just turned his face towards the dark window.

About ten minutes later- the longest ten minutes of Dean's life- Sam got out of the car and moved to the back to grab his duffel and backpack.

Dean slowly got out and walked around the hood, meeting Sam on the sidewalk. He stood, looking slightly up into the eyes of his little brother, the boy he'd been watching over his whole life.

Dean took a wad of rolled bills out of his pocket and shoved it into Sam's canvas jacket. "Take care of yourself, and don't do anything I wouldn't do." His voice cracked on the last syllable, belying his casual tone.

Sam pulled out the money. "Where'd you get this, Dean?" he asked, voice incredulous.

"Here and there. Mostly from pool." He shrugged, then slurred convincingly, " _Wanna shhhoot a round?_ " He grinned. "Gets'em every time."

Dropping the smile, he nodded at the contents of Sam's palm. "You'll need it more than I do." In his head, Dean was imagining the diners where Sam would eat, the motels he'd stay in on the way to California. The downpayment and fees on a place to live, textbooks, decent clothes not stained with mud and blood and years of cheap laundromat washing. Dean knew his brother was smart and strong, but he still worried. He'd been looking out for Sam since his brother was six months old.

Sam pocketed the money and nodded once, awkwardly, before taking a step back from Dean. He turned, took another step, and then he was off, moving closer and closer to the idling bus. He paused for an older woman to drag herself up the stairs, and then he was consumed into the belly of the wheezing Greyhound. He didn't look back.

Dean was struck- painfully, suddenly- by the memory of Sam's first day at school.

Dean had gotten up at his usual time, checking the salt lines, packing a lunch for himself from the odds and ends still left in the cheap motel cupboards, but this time adding one for Sammy.

He made sure Sam was up and in the bathroom before starting breakfast, white bread smeared with peanut butter. While Sam munched on the food, washing the sticky creation down with a glass of milk, Dean divvied up school supplies. His notebook from last year was still mostly empty, so he tore out the used front pages and stuck it into Sam's thrift-shop backpack. Dean took the dog-eared cardboard binder (all the filler paper was gone, he'd need to lift some off another student at school) for himself. He stuffed two pencils, meticulously sharpened with his pocketknife, into the front pocket of Sammy's bag. Grabbing a peanut butter sandwich for himself on the way out, he snagged his and Sam's jackets and locked the door behind them.

They were the only kids living in the motel, and so were the only ones at the bus stop. Sam stood beside Dean, thumbs through his backpack straps. "We're living in a hotel." He sighed. "What are the normal kids going to think?"

"Who cares what they think?" said Dean. "'Sides, your scrawny self ain't exactly normal anyways," he teased

The bus wheezed up, the folding doors opening with a hiss. Sam's thin body had climbed up the steps before him. Several stops later they were at the school and Sam- surrounded by bodies all taller than his- disappeared into the crowd of the local elementary school.

Now, watching the taillights of a different bus fading into the distance, Dean was struck with the same- just greatly amplified- sense of loss. His little brother didn't need him anymore-he had left, had severed all ties with their father- and just like that, the thing that had anchored Dean for the last eighteen years had been cut loose from his life.

Dean drove, just drove, the only sound the rumble of the engine shifting gears, the sleek body off the car hugging those back country curves Dean took too fast.

Sam sat in the sagging camp chair reading and rereading the letter. He'd hitched a ride into town, checked the PO Box he'd been renting, and then walked back to the house they were squatting in. Even after years of nomadic living- motels and hostels and sometimes abandoned houses- Sam hated squatting, hated the abandoned houses and warehouses littered with trash and wild animals and sometimes used needles. He hated everything about it, especially the questions.

Now he was looking at his ticket out, his golden wrapper. He'd landed a full ride to Stanford University. It was an all-expenses-paid life-raft that could take him away from the life of a hunter and give him a shot at the real world, at a normal life.

He heard the low growl of the Impala out front, and then the loud thump of the screen door as Dean came in the house. His boots padded over the distressed old wood flooring, followed by the distinctive pop and hiss of an opened beer can.

Dean came in the room, but Sam kept his head down, staring at the letter, understanding- and dreading- that after this, everything was going to change one way or another. "Whaddya do, flunk a test?" he teased, stretching out to start unlacing his boots.

"It's not a test, Dean," Sam responded, his brother's light-heartedness rubbing him the wrong way. He took a deep breath and passed Dean the letter.

He watched his brother's eyes move side to side, widening as they went, the freckles standing out more prominently on his cheeks. He looked up, lips slightly parted. . "Stanford- that's like, big leagues man. I…"

Sam was surprised Dean had heard of Stanford, considering that he'd dropped out of high school at 17. "Keep reading," he said, wanting Dean to get the full picture.

Moments later, Sam was yanked out of the sagging chair by Dean and wrapped in a tight hug. He bent a little, leaning down to rest his head on his brother's shoulder.

"I am so damn proud of you," Dean said gruffly. Sam felt himself get thumped on the back.

"What am I going to tell dad?" he asked, finally able to voice what had been on his mind for months.

"How long have you know?" Dean asked. When Sam responded that he'd known since April, he saw Dean's expression drop minutely, something only Sam would be able to notice.

"I was waiting to see what kind of scholarship they'd give me. Those don't usually get distributed 'til May. There was no point in telling you if we couldn't pay," Sam tried to reassure Dean. He didn't think it had worked.

"We'd have figured it out," Dean replied, a knee-jerk reaction that had almost pulled a grin from Sam. Dean had always tried to figure things out for himself and Sam, attempting to make everything work. It was such a _Dean_ thing to say.

"But… what are we gonna tell dad?" Sam asked again, coming back to the heart of the problem. John had acted like Sam staying in school had been a complete inconvenience; he couldn't imagine his father taking the news of college well.

"We'll just tell him," said Dean. As usual he had far more confidence in their father than Sam did. "Maybe we can work cases out there, or you can come with us for the weekends"-

"Dean." Sam interrupted his older brother quietly, confidently. He didn't want to hunt on the weekends, always wondering if or when Dean and John would show up. He wanted out.

"I want out. I want to be normal."

In the long silence, Sam heard the ominous grumble of John's truck pull up, the sound like that of an approaching army entering the field of battle. The back door slammed, the door tolling out John's entrance to the house.

"Hey boys!" he called, his voice chipper. Internally, Sam groaned. His dad was drunk again. It seemed these days he was buzzed more often than not. Right now it looked like he was still in a good mood, not yet having entered the stage of morose and aggressive drinking. Sam glanced over at his brother.

Dean smiled, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Dad! You're not going to fucking believe this, but Sam got a full ride to Stanford! A full ride!" Though the smile was fake, Dean was clearly proud of his brother, and that caused a warm little ball of pride to grow within Sam.

John stopped moving, the smile sliding right off his bearded face. "What? You applied to college without telling me, your father?"

To Sam, John still sounded more surprised than anything, although he could tell anger was right around the corner. "I didn't want to bother you with it if I didn't get in or we couldn't afford it."

"You were trying to sneak out behind my back!" bellowed John. Sam held his ground, determined not to cower back from his father's rage. Why should his father be mad? In a normal family anywhere else in the world, this would be cause for celebration, for bragging to friends and relatives. Sam must have the only parent on the planet who say a full scholarship to college as a bad thing.

"No sir, that's not it at all-"

John walked up to Sam, his blotchy face inches from his son's. "You trying to run out on this family, boy?" he drawled. "After everything I've done for you? Letting you stay in school despite how much of a pain in my ass it was- and now you're just trying to walk out?"

"Let me explain,"- Sam was determined to be the bigger person, to not rise to his father's jabs about school. In Sam's mind, John hadn't done much of anything for them. Sam leaned away from his dad's face, the after-smell of cheap scotch turning his stomach.

"No, let me explain," John enunciated slowly, as though Sam was a fool or small child. "You walk out that door, you don't bother coming back. You don't get to hit the pause button on this family when things get inconvenient!"

Sam ground his teeth in the effort of not snapping back at John. "Fine," he stated harshly before turning away to go pack. Sam had been expecting a reaction like this all along.

A few seconds later Dean came into the room.

"I can't take it anymore, Dean," Sam growled, stuffing things willy-nilly into his bad. "I can't take him giving us orders without reason, and always coming home drunk, and just expecting us to follow in his footsteps, to spend our whole life on the road." Sam wanted something else. He wanted something better.

"Sammy…" Dean sounded tired.

Sam turned to look at him. "It's Sam, Dean. And you know what, you, me, we don't have to do this. We could do something else, we could live in a house with an address, and work a real job, and stay in one place, and be fucking normal for once!" He gestured between his chest and Dean's. "You and me, we've got a chance."

He looked at his big brother and took a deep breath. "You can come with me, Dean. You could get a job somewhere…"

He trailed off when Dean broke eye contact to look at the toes of his worn boots. He shook his head, slowly. "You know I can't do that Sam. I'm a fucking high school dropout, the only thing I got in the world is the Impala, and we can't even register her because we don't have an address. And Dad"- he gritted his teeth. "Dad can't hunt alone, you and I both know that. He needs someone watching his back, helping him with research."

"… _needs someone to stop him from drowning in his own vomit,"_ Sam thought to himself. "What about my back, Dean. You're picking dad over me?"

Logically Sam knew that wasn't it, knew Dean wouldn't pick one over the other, but it sure felt that way. Dean had always just _been there_ , and Sam hated the idea of leaving him behind in this life.

"No, Sam, it's not fucking like that. I'd be useless at whatever little domestic shit you're trying to set up. This is all I can do, all I fucking know. And we can't just leave dad on his own, you know what, man! You know I don't want you to go!"

It hurt. That hurt Sam, but he knew what he had to do. Shouldering his duffel, he headed to the door. "You at least going to give me a ride to the bus station?" he called back to his brother.

Dean walked out of the bedroom, grabbed the keys, and continued right on outside. Sam stopped in the living room, standing tall. John was splayed in Sam's abandoned chair, a crushed can of beer at his feet, another in his hand. They eyed each other coldly.

"I meant what I said, boy. You leave, we ain't your family any more. You don't bother coming back."

Sam nodded jerkily and walked through the kitchen. He glanced back- just once, paused in the doorway- to look around. His father was still in the chair, head tilted back towards the ceiling as Deep Purple played on the cheap radio. Dean's beer was still sitting abandoned on the floor, condensation slowly forming another scar on the battered floor.

He went outside, throwing his bags into the backseat of his brother's beloved Impala. Dean turned on the ignition, slammed off the music, and drove- too fast through the night in uncharacteristic silence.

When they arrived at the terminal Sam went in to buy his ticket, quickly returning to the Impala. He sat quietly, breathing in the scent of leather and gasoline and mint gum and gunpowder that all added up to _home_ and _Dean._ "Bus leaves in less than an hour," he told his brother. Dean nodded, not quite making eye contact. Sam could feel a void opening up between them despite the fact that they were currently separated by less than three feet of seat.

Sam fidgeted. "You could still come with me," he blurted out into the silence.

Dean sighed. "You know I can't, Sam, dammit we both know I can't. I'd get in your way, be the freak with the salt, and you know- you and I know- we can't leave dad by himself. That's not fucking fair."

Sam thought that what was really unfair- what had been unfair for years- was everything about Dean. Dean had been pressured into becoming John's full-time hunting partner at seventeen, making him drop out before graduating. Dean was always caught in the middle of John and Sam's fights, trying to keep the peace and hold the family together. Dean deserved so much more. Instead of fighting about _fair,_ Sam looked out his window, not really seeing anything.

Ten quick minutes later Sam was grabbing his stuff out of the back and facing his brother for the last time- he had no idea when he would see Dean again.

Sam was shocked into silence when Dean stuffed a roll of cash into his pocket. Grabbing it back out, he stuttered, ""Where'd you get this, Dean?"

Dean grinned saucily. "Here and there. Mostly from pool." He shrugged, then slurred convincingly, " _Wanna shhhoot a round?_ " He smirked. "Gets'em every time."

Looking serious once more, Dean nodded at the money. "You'll need it more than I do."

Sam wondered what Dean had been saving it for. Parts for the Impala? A decent hotel? Oh god, not strippers again.

Nodding solemnly at Dean, Sam turned and walked onto the bus. He thought absently, as he waited for some old lady to board, that he was really on his own for the first time. No one was going to be waking him up in the morning, or demanding he stuff salt-rounds, or coming to find him and bring him back this time.

As he climbed aboard the bus and sat down in an itchy, carpeted seat, Sam was grinning hard, dimples deeply prominent to anyone watching. For the first time in his life, Sam felt free.

The Winchester brothers would be confronted by the disparity of the way they remembered the night Sam left one odd day in heaven. They would stand on the road leading up to that abandoned house and remember the fight, remember the quiet trip to the station, remember the drive that separated them in a way that'd never occurred before.

Dean would remember the pain, the grief of having lost a brother but not being allowed to talk about him with John. Dean would remember worrying about Sam for weeks after, hoping he had found a place to live and that he was safe and happy.

Sam would remember Dean showing up out of the blue one day that October, leaning against the outside of the building that held Sam's Ethics 101 class. Sam remembered the awkward looks from the other students, the way Dean asked for his help on a local hunt.

The night Sam left would define their relationships for years to come, resentment and pain on both sides. It would, forever, just be referred to as _that night. That night_ dad said that; _that night_ when I read the letter, _that night_ you left.


End file.
